


The Snare

by Mela_Rotta



Category: The Alienist (TV), The Alienist - Caleb Carr
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27786445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mela_Rotta/pseuds/Mela_Rotta
Summary: «Lack of oxygen,» he hears Doyle whisper. «Guess he's never hunted rabbits. A quick death means tender meat.»♦ ♦ ♦
Relationships: Marcus Isaacson/Captain Doyle, Marcus Isaacson/Thomas Byrnes
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	The Snare

**Author's Note:**

> So S2 was so sh*tty compared to S1 and to the books that my best friend and I started fantasizing about the weirdest ships. This is the result.  
> Also, Laszlo and Sara are together and John adopted Joseph. Because why not.  
> Also also, English is not my native language so feel free to point out any mistakes. I'll gladly fix them.
> 
> The title was inspired by the poem "Rabbit Snared In The Night" by D. H. Lawrence, which you'll find quoted in the fic.

It's been five days since the capture of Libby Hatch, and Marcus wakes up.

His throat is dry, and his left hand prickles under Lucius' head. He sighs at the sight of tears rolling down his brother's cheeks, and the soft sound makes Lucius open his eyes. Marcus smiles as his twin sobs and kisses his hand.

Laszlo and Sara come to visit later and bring him a couple of books and a deck of cards, and in the evening Marcus enjoys a game of beggar-my-neighbor with John, come to spend the night in Lucius' stead.

It feels like a holiday, the end of the nightmare. They laugh and talk about Joseph's academic improvements and his weird love of scorpions.

«Grandma's being surprisingly indulgent with him,» says John, pouring him another glass of water. «I half expected her to have a stroke when she found the terrarium Stevie's made for him, but she just laughed!»

«How couldn't she,» he grins. «Joseph's lovely and a remarkably good influence on you, and she knows it.»

John blushes but doesn't get cross. «Yes, taking care of a child put a lot of things in perspective. Laszlo's been a great help in that.»

Marcus takes a long sip of water, keeping his gaze fixed on the cards. «Speaking of children... any news?»

John shrugs. «The execution's been scheduled for the next week. No more dead babies.»

Marcus feels a shiver run down his spine. «Good.»

None of them speaks out loud the “at least for now” hanging from their lips.

♦ ♦ ♦

Half of him longs to watch Libby's body jerk and twist like a maddened snake, hear the muffled screams of pain, the buzzing of electricity burning the life out of her.

The other half is grateful to be spared the sight, even if it means spending the afternoon playing solitaire after solitaire.

By the sixteenth match, he's so sick of it that he decides to pick up one of the books left by Laszlo. The fact that it's a poetry collection only half surprises him, and he flips lazily through the pages until a string of words catches his gaze.

_Why do you spurt and sprottle_

_like that, bunny?_

_Why should I want to throttle_

_you, bunny?_

Marcus reads on, whispering the words as they unfold over the page sticky and heavy like molasses. Something dark, something weird. It almost feels like it's something that Libby Hatch would write, but the further he reads, the more it becomes carnal in a wrong and at the same time better way. That throbbing love for a trembling prey, this calling for the flesh and blood of an animal. That, he can understand. Not the killing of a child.

A sudden knock on the door startles him. He puts the book down and clears his voice.

«Come in.»

The door opens slowly, squealing loudly on its hinges. The man standing on the threshold quirks an eyebrow and looks at Marcus with frosted blue eyes. «Needs some oiling.»

Marcus frowns, unable to hide his confusion. «Mr. Byrnes, why are you here? Libby-»

«Libby's getting fried today,» says Byrnes, cutting him off. «I know.»

Marcus stays silent as the former Commissioner eases himself in the armchair next to the bed and takes off his hat.

«How you doin', boy?»

Marcus shrugs. «Quite good, considering I’ve been shot. I am to be discharged tomorrow, the doctor says I can recovery at home.»

Byrnes nods. «That's good to hear. You did a good job.»

It's so absurd that Marcus can't help but laugh. « _How?_ Not preventing Clara's kidnapping?»

Byrnes glares at him. «I was talking about your role in the investigation. Learn to take a compliment.»

It's Marcus's turn to glare, crossing his arms even if the movement pulls at his stitches. «Cut the bullshit, why are you here?»

Surprisingly, Byrnes seems amused by that. He leans back into the armchair and fishes a silver cigarette case from a pocket. He lights one and then offers Marcus another. The detective looks at his extended hand and sighs. Byrnes must sense his uncertainty because he smirks and places the cigarette onto the upturned book.

«Don't worry, I won't tell the nurse.»

Marcus casts a glance at the door, but it's still too early for dinner. «Ok.»

He lets Byrnes light the cigarette for him, and they smoke in a curiously pleasant quiet, Marcus looking at the golden-tinted sky outside the window, and Byrnes looking at the book in the detective's lap. The smoke is light on the tongue, lighter than the stuff Byrnes usually favors, with a wonderful hazel aftertaste. He holds every breath as long as possible, then exhales slowly through his nose and watches the ripples float to the ceiling, turning to slits of gold and orange in the late afternoon light.

In a prison far from the hospital, a wet sponge is being placed on Libby Hatch's head, but Marcus finds himself emptied of every thought of her and of the horrors she delivered to his autopsy table. He can't bring himself to care about it, maybe because Byrnes doesn't look like he cares either: he sits with crossed knees and a straight back, as comfortable as a king on his throne. Looking at him, Marcus thinks of Doyle's blood seeping into the courtyard soil, and wonders if their exchange truly happened. The memories are starting to feel like a bad dream, twisted beads strung next to the simple ones for a never-ending necklace.

Byrnes coughs, his voice a bit raspy when he speaks. «I have a question.»

Marcus grins bitterly, tilting his head. «Is that so? And here I thought you came to help me pass the time, seeing as you've always been so _amiable_ to me and my brother.»

Byrnes takes it with a polite, cold smile. «Oh, but _I_ _am_ helping you pass the time. Come on, indulge me.»

Marcus scoffs and picks up the book. «Fine. Get on with it.»

«When Doyle was killed,» says Byrnes slow and casual, as if he's talking about the weather, «you told me that he'd died in his uniform, serving the city.»

So it did happen. Bad dreams always sprout from the rotten seed of reality, after all.

Marcus turns the pages, but the words are just a smudge on the paper. «So?»

«Had you died that night at the Institute, would you have wanted me to say the same thing about you?»

It's the most fucked-up question Marcus has ever heard. He lets out a choked sigh, shaking his head.

« _Fuck_ , Byrnes.»

There's a long stretch of silence between them, streaked red and orange by the sun now shining lower on the skyline. Libby must be dead by now.

«No. It was stupid of me to say that. Just a string of empty words... childish, even.»

«Then what was that you really thought?»

Marcus feels his cheek turn hot with shame and opens his mouth to let out a lie, but Byrnes' pointed stare turns it sour on his tongue.

He grabs the glass on the nightstand and takes a long sip, trying to focus on the coldness of the water instead of that of the man's eyes. The eyes of a man who would wade through a river of blood just to get a nugget of truth.

He swallows and puts the glass down. «Doyle was an idiot and he died like one. My death would have been idiotic as well.»

White teeth gleam in a smirk that looks like a crack on a porcelain doll, and Marcus squirms.

«I think you should be going, Mr. Byrnes.»

The man takes a look at his pocket watch and gets up. «Guess it's better if Lucius doesn't see me here.»

«I didn't say that.»

«But you thought it,» he replies, voice rich with amusement, then he suddenly leans closer and seizes the book from Marcus' hands. The detective reaches out instinctively but Byrnes is quick to take a step back, just outside of his grasp. He looks at Marcus with a raised eyebrow and a smug smile beneath the mustache. Marcus wishes he could rip it off his face with a sharp blade.

«Oh, don't give me that face, sonny. I'm just curious.»

«You know what they say about curiosity.»

Byrnes laughs out loud. «As much as you wish to keep your pride intact, there's no cat here,» he says, as he lets his gaze wander over the page. He pauses, chuckles darkly as he returns the book to Marcus. «Only a kitten.»

He's out of the door before Marcus can come up with a reply.

♦ ♦ ♦

«Hold still, please. I'm almost done.»

Marcus hisses as Laszlo tugs on the last stitch and pulls. The flesh stings and sticks to it, no matter the gentleness of the doctor's motions, and when the thread comes finally off the detective sighs with relief.

«Sorry I moved.»

«It's understandable. I reckon you've never been stitched up before.»

«I've never even been shot before.»

Laszlo's smile doesn't reach his eyes. «I should have left Cyrus with you and Lucius, he knows how to deal with men like Goo Goo.»

«It's not your fault. Lucius and I aren't suited for gunplay, that's all.»

Laszlo nods and moves to the utility sink nearby to wash his hands and the equipment.

«Byrnes came to visit,» Marcus says, buttoning his shirt up again.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Laszlo's shoulders go as tense as violin strings. The doctor turns around to look at him, ink-black eyes squinted in confusion. «What did he want?»

«Nothing, I think. We just chatted for a bit and then he left.»

Laszlo snorts with dry amusement, resuming his task. «Do you think he did it out of courtesy?»

«As strange as it may sound, yes. I can't think of any ulterior motives he could have had.»

«Mh. Maybe you're right,» the doctor says, placing the tweezers and scissors on the drainboard. «After all, it's not like his public image is at stake: the papers made sure to let all of New York know about his role in the rescue of the Vanderbilt baby.»

«At least this time you and Sara got mentioned too. And John.»

«And I'm truly glad about it, Sara needs all the good publicity she can get... but back to the topic at hand. Are you trying to distract me?»

«What? No, I thought we were done. We let Byrnes worry us enough last year during the Beecham hunt.»

«Yes, but you're the one who brought him up and it's evident that something about his visit struck you.»

«I don't know, I just thought it was weird,» Marcus says, getting off the examination table. Laszlo doesn't reply immediately, his gaze unfocused. The detective can almost hear the cogs in his head click and turn, looking for the sparkle of a logical answer. After a long moment, Laszlo sighs and scratches his beard.

«You didn't tell Lucius, did you?»

«No. Please don't tell him. Nor Sara.»

«Of course. It's not like there's something to tell, either. Still, what a strange thing.»

Marcus shrugs at the same time as someone knocks on the door. Laszlo smiles at that, the warm petroleum of his eyes glinting.

«Come in!»

Sara Howard flings the door open, her cheeks flushed and her hat and purse already discarded somewhere in the parlor, probably. When her shiny green eyes lay on Marcus she smiles. «Hello, detective sergeant! How are you doing?»

«Quite fine, Miss Howard. Your boyfriend has just finished torturing me.»

Laszlo scoffs and elbows him lightly. «Ungrateful boy.»

Sara laughs and it sounds like a strong wind shaking a cluster of silver bells. Marcus feels refreshed by it, and as he follows his friends back to the parlor for a nice glass of whisky, he almost forgets about Thomas Byrnes.

♦ ♦ ♦

It's been a month since Libby Hatch's death, and Marcus still dreams about the night he was shot. There's a sharp pain in his abdomen and a sticky coldness enveloping his limbs, and dark spots dancing out of the corner of his eyes. Right after that, fumbling hands pressing on his wound and making him scream before he finds himself dipped into darkness as warm as a lover's embrace. His eyelids are heavy but he knows he cannot sleep: his brother needs him, his friends need him. So he lifts his hands to push away the dark, and his nails scratch against cold wood.

Every time he wakes up drenched in sweat, the rotten-sweet taste of soil on his tongue. It's not like he's never had nightmares before, he knows what to do: a warm cup of milk, a spoonful of honey, and he sleeps like a baby till morning.

One night, however, his fingertips do not find a coffin lid but a body covered in wet clothing. The body shuffles closer and a lit match is raised between them, casting a faint glow over a pale face. Marcus lets his gaze wander over the sharp cheekbones, the downturned eyes, the disheveled dark hair.

«Doyle,» he whispers, hands still splayed on the captain's chest.

The man's thin lips curl up in a smirk that makes his skin crawl. «Missed me, detective sergeant?»

«You're dead. This is just a dream.»

«Yes. Pity, though. How I long for a pint.»

His throat is white and whole, untouched by blade, but the front of his uniform is drenched in blood. Marcus jerks back, looking warily at the man.

Doyle pouts like a child. «Oh, no, come back! You're so warm.»

«You've always been such a pain in the ass. What do you want, huh? Torment me?»

«I don't know, it looks like you're doing a damn fine job all by yourself. Take some responsibility, Isaacson.»

«Oh, that's rich, coming from the man whose only worry in life was to get backhanders!»

«Sweet Mary, you never relax, do you? I'm not your boss, you can drop your goody-two-shoes act.»

«Just shut up, will you? You're a corpse. You're dead.»

«Dead _bored_ , that's for sure. But tell me about the snare.»

Marcus frowns. «What... oh, the poem. Just a-» he yawns, cupping a hand over his mouth. «Just a rabbit in a snare.»

He yawns again, suddenly feeling so tired. He decides to close his eyes just for a moment.

«Lack of oxygen,» he hears Doyle whisper. «Guess he's never hunted rabbits. A quick death means tender meat.»

And then he's alone in the dark.

♦ ♦ ♦


End file.
